Goddess of Gotham (2 page)

Next, her ceremonial bag, stashed in its secret hiding place. OK, so it was the back of her wardrobe. But it did the job. The strand of hair was still there, exactly as she had left it, laid
just across the door handles so that she would know if anything had been touched. You couldn’t be too careful, as Mamma’s death had proved. If they were able to get to Mamma then Kumari
could well be next in line. As for Papa’s malaise, Kumari was sure it was something more than grief. If even the god-king could succumb to outside forces, what hope was there for Kumari? Gain
access to her magic tools and they were halfway there. Of course, she had no idea who
they
were, it was just her suspicions. It made it all the more important to guard her things. Through
them they could harm her.

Until the day they ascended the Holy Mountain, a living god or goddess was vulnerable. Like her Mamma and Papa, one per cent of Kumari remained mortal. Find that weak spot and you could kill off
the human part, consigning the living god or goddess to the endless night of a limbo state. Someone had done that to her Mamma and it would take an awful lot to set her free. Now not even Papa was
strong enough to rescue Mamma and the gods could not intervene. Only one of her own blood could save Mamma. If she found out how Mamma had been murdered, Kumari could help her heal and send her on,
up the Holy Mountain to join her fellow deities instead of languishing in its foothills, unable to go forward or come back.

Whoever it was had known where to strike, and that knowledge was kept from all but a very few which meant it had to be someone close to the royal family, perhaps even in the palace itself. Then
there was the mystery of her death, the complete lack of evidence. There were only three ways to kill a living goddess: one being with the sacred sword. But that was kept under lock and key in the
temple, guarded by the monks day and night. For the sacred sword was also vital to the first and most important Power of them all: Power No 1, the Power to be Invincible. Of the Eight Great Powers
to be gained by a trainee god or goddess, this was the hardest to attain.

The second way to kill a goddess was to turn her own magic against her but that, surely, would leave its mark. There had been no marks on Mamma. It was all very strange. Whatever the
circumstances, it was clear Mamma’s death was no accident. Someone else had had a hand in it, and that someone was very powerful. Only a person with great influence could have murdered a
living goddess like Mamma.

Aha, here it was. Her ceremonial bag and it looked intact. Better check the contents one more time. This was too important to mess up.

Summoning Cup

Cowrie Shell

Incense

Charcoal

Incantations Part One
(in hardback)

Journal

Firesticks

It was all there, present and correct. Kumari slung the bag over her shoulder. It rucked up her sleeve, exposing her amulet. The silver bracelet round her wrist was Kumari’s most precious
possession, a gift from her Mamma that was intended to keep her safe. And so it would, if only Kumari could remember the mantra that activated it. Mantras were not her strong point. They all
sounded the same. Still, she loved her amulet. It made her feel closer to Mamma. As if Mamma were protecting her through the slender band of silver that she always wore.

Catching sight of it, she felt a rush of courage. All she had to do now was get past the guards to the western door. Once free of the palace, she would climb the hills opposite the Holy Mountain
to perform her ritual with the dawn. The Great Summoning Ceremony had to be conducted in direct sight of the mountain. In its foothills Mamma languished, and it was from there Kumari hoped to
summon her. The ascent was steep and dangerous; she needed to move swiftly. Too much haste, however, and she could make a fatal mistake.

Carefully, she replaced the raven strand of hair and tiptoed towards the door. Scooping Badmash from her bed, she tucked him under one arm. Badmash glared up at her beadily but refrained from
opening his beak. On the threshold, Kumari paused, listening for telltale creaks. Night watchmen patrolled the corridors. Bump into one of them and all was lost. They had strict orders to protect
her, and that included from herself. No one left the palace alone at night, especially not the girl-goddess.

Her heart was thumping so hard she could swear someone would hear it. It was now or never. She lifted the latch . . .

The corridor was still, the butter lamps burning low. She glanced towards her Ayah’s door, half-expecting to hear her snore. Generally, her Ayah snored so loudly it reverberated right
through the floorboards. Tonight, however, all was silent.

Her Ayah slept in the next room, as she had ever since Kumari was born. Protocol demanded that the girl-goddess had a nanny, even though her mother had not been keen. Happily, the Ayah was a
distant cousin and so kind it was impossible not to love her. It had been the Ayah who had held her tight the day they bore Mamma away.

As they carried Mamma, cold and still, to the foothills of the Holy Mountain, Kumari had followed, holding on to her Ayah. They had placed Mamma’s pallet by the river that separated the
Holy Mountain from the kingdom. Wide and very deep, its waters ran icy cold from the snowy peak. The mists had descended, rolling towards Mamma. Then the waters rose and took her pallet, sweeping
it towards the distant shore. There she would awake to the living death of limbo, blessed with all her attributes of youth and beauty, cursed to remain stuck. The first step was to avenge
Mamma’s death, to break the murderer’s curse. Then she would be free to ascend the mountain and take her rightful place among the gods.

‘I’ll find them, Mamma,’ whispered Kumari as she gazed at the waters with streaming eyes, clutching her Ayah’s arm with whitened fingers until the pallet disappeared from
sight.

‘I will look after you,’ said the Ayah. ‘I will take care of you.’

And so she had, although it was never the same.

Kumari could still feel her Mamma’s slender fingers stroking her face gently. Occasionally an unseen hand would brush her cheek and she knew it was her mother. Some people would say she
was crazy and so she kept those thoughts to herself. But Kumari
knew
she was there, so close and yet so far. It was why she had to do this, for herself and for Mamma.

Here was the Ayah’s door. Best to go s-l-o-w-l-y. Somewhere around here a floorboard squeaked. This might be the one . . . Toes down first . . . Nothing. On to the next one. Aha – a
creak. Step over it very carefully. Excellent! Home and dry. Past the first butter lamp, then the second. Stick to the shadows at all costs. Weird that her Ayah wasn’t snoring. No time to
ponder. Keep going.

One down, two to go. There was Papa’s room at the end. Before him, the RHM. Ah yes, the Right Hand Man. Her least favourite person in the palace. In the universe, in fact. OK, so her
universe ended at the borderlands, gateway to the World Beyond. And what little she knew about the World Beyond she had heard from the RHM. Frankly, having listened to all his tales, she rather
wished he would move there. He would fit in really well, wrinkling up with the rest of them.

They lived short but terrible lives in the World Beyond before their bodies crumbled to dust. Or at least, that was what the RHM said in their Social History sessions. Personally, she thought it
sounded rather interesting, all this stuff about ageing. How weird would it be, seeing your face shrivelled up like a walnut?

OK, so it was unlikely. Impossible, in fact. Amongst the many gifts bestowed on a girl-goddess, Kumari had been granted eternal youth. Even the ordinary citizens of the kingdom aged at a rate
that was barely perceptible. Most lived to be well over three hundred, their skins still unlined, their hair black and thick. Maybe she could just slip over to the World Beyond, take a peek at
these people. She’d be so close to the borderlands tonight. It would only take a minute. Even as the thought popped into her head, so did the RHM’s voice.

‘Time moves faster in the World Beyond. You would have but a year and a day as they measure it. A year and a day, Kumari. And then you would die!’

Ah yes, the one other way to kill a goddess. Consign her to the World Beyond where she would be subjected to their physical laws. There, far away from the Holy Mountain, she would be unprotected
from Time’s ravages, helpless against the World Beyond’s greatest disease. A year and a day before Time claimed her for its own, treating her worse even than a mere mortal, as it once
would have treated the RHM.

Oh, he was safe now, all right, secure in the kingdom. He would live as long as all the other citizens, privy as he was to their secrets, breathing in the haze of Happiness, although it had not
always been that way. The RHM himself was from the World Beyond. Found abandoned as a young boy in the borderlands, it was Papa who had rescued him, brought him to the palace, treated him as his
own. Educated him, cared for him and finally inflicted him on his daughter. For that, she all but cursed Papa every time the RHM spoke.

After all, she was the one who had to listen to him droning on day after day. He had a voice that drummed right through your skull and scratched at your brain. In fact, she could hear it right
now.

Really
hear it, out loud!

She was hovering outside his door. There were voices coming from inside. A muffled shout then a gasp. A sudden thud. Then a murmur. That had to be the RHM. He always spoke softly. Somehow it
made what he said more important. More sinister, even. The second voice again, rising in anger.

‘Pay up or I’ll . . .’

Thud, thud. Then silence.

Hmmm,
very
interesting. And in the middle of the night. Who was the man in the RHM’s room? And what had he been talking about? Some business transaction, it seemed, but at a very strange hour. On all her other expeditions around the palace in
the small hours, she had never known the RHM to stay up this late. It was a puzzle she picked over all the way to the western door.

As it clicked shut behind her, she forgot all about the RHM. Cold night air filled her lungs; the adventure was just beginning. She could make out the shapes of yaks dozing in the meadow
alongside the palace as she stole past.
Smelly beasts,
thought Kumari, as one let out a prolonged fart. The meadow was fringed on the far side by forest, the intermittent moonlight picking
out the twisted trunks of oaks and rhododendrons, casting them into monstrous curlicues that appeared to be alive.

On the edge of the forest, she hesitated. It looked different in the moonlight. At night, strange sounds emitted from every leaf and branch, odd rustles and creaks.
Don’t be so
ridiculous,
thought Kumari. They were only trees, after all. Still, she strode through it as fast as she dared, given that the branches hung so low. As the forest grew denser, she began to feel
claustrophobic. For once, she was glad to be both small and slight. A larger person would have found themselves impaled on a thousand twigs.

Suddenly, her head was jerked backwards. She froze, stifling a scream. Very slowly, she turned around. Her hair was caught up on an aged oak, its gnarled branches grabbing like grasping fingers.
Kumari blinked at them once, twice. She could have sworn they moved.

Don’t panic,
she thought.
Just untwist your hair verrrrry carefully.
She began to unwind the long, black strands. The branch swayed, reaching for her face. Her hair was stuck
fast, however much she yanked at it. The twigs were scratching, stabbing at her eyes. She tried to twist to one side. And then, suddenly, she felt it, a gentle caress on her cheek. An unseen hand
released her hair. She was running, free. Crashing through the forest, not caring who heard her, stopping only when she had reached the slopes beyond, sending a silent thank you to Mamma.

Safe above the tree line, she stood gasping for breath. A feeble squawk penetrated the sound of blood pounding in her ears. She pulled a seasick Badmash from her pocket.

‘You poor thing,’ she murmured, cradling him in her hands.

Badmash tottered theatrically and collapsed against her chest.

‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘Enough now, Badmash.’ Badmash was a great pet – but he did like to be a drama queen.

Kumari clambered up the mountainside as it grew steadily steeper, Badmash perched on her shoulder, stubbornly refusing to fly. She had done her best to teach him, trying every trick in the book.
After all, it was something she herself had to learn, one of the Eight Great Powers: the Power to Levitate or Fly Through the Sky. Power No 6.

So far, she had acquired precisely none. It was not a brilliant record. Before she could become a fully-trained living goddess, she had to pass all eight tests. By now she should have passed at
least one, two if she was really going some. It was not like she didn’t want to learn, just that somehow it seemed such an effort. Some Powers were more fun than others. Take the Power of
Extraordinary Sight, for example. Among other things, it meant she would be able to see demons and spirits as well as discern the truth. Then there was the Power to be Invincible whenever she
wielded the sacred sword. As for the Power to Move through Mountains – how cool was that?

OK, so she had failed to gain even one Power. It made success tonight all the harder. And this was no ordinary ritual. This was the Great Summoning Ceremony itself. The means by which a god or
goddess could be brought into another realm to offer help or, in this case, provide answers. Summoning would not free Mamma, however. She would return to the limbo from whence she came. The very
act of Summoning was dangerous which was why, for once, Kumari had applied herself. Time and time again she had practised in the privacy of her bedroom. Somehow, she always got the words wrong.
There were too many other things to think about.

A lot of the time, for instance, Kumari wondered what it would be like to be normal. To roam the streets of the kingdom unobserved, to have a friend. She had no proper friends, apart from
Badmash. And he did not really count, being a small, bolshy baby bird. What was so wrong with normal after all? Normal was better. If she were normal, she could giggle with the other girls. She
could dress in something other than red robes that covered her like a sack. She might even get to cut her hair into something resembling a style. If she looked more normal, then boys might actually
glance her way instead of casting their eyes to the ground on the rare occasions she passed by.